So saying he took one step forward, spreading out his arms. This was too much for Mr. Mudge. With a cry he started and ran towards home at the top of his speed, with Ben in pursuit.
“I believe I shall die of laughing, exclaimed Ben, pausing out of breath, and sitting down on a stone, “what a donkey he is, to be sure, to think there are such things as ghosts. I’d like to be by when he tells Mrs. Mudge.”
After a moment’s thought, Ben wrapped up the sheet, took it under his arm, and once more ran in pursuit of Mr. Mudge.
Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge was sitting in the kitchen of the Poorhouse, mending stockings. She was not in the pleasantest humor, for one of the paupers had managed to break a plate at tea-table (if that can be called tea where no tea is provided), and trifles were sufficient to ruffle Mrs. Mudge’s temper.
“Where’s Mudge, I wonder?” she said, sharply; “over to the tavern, I s’pose, as usual. There never was such a shiftless, good-for- nothing man. I’d better have stayed unmarried all the days of my life than have married him. If he don’t get in by ten, I’ll lock the door, and it shall stay locked. ‘Twill serve him right to stay out doors all night.”
Minutes slipped away, and the decisive hour approached.
“I’ll go to the door and look out,” thought Mrs. Mudge, “if he ain’t anywhere in sight I’ll fasten the door.”
She laid down her work and went to the door.
She had not quite reached it when it was flung open violently, and Mr. Mudge, with a wild, disordered look, rushed in, nearly over- turning his wife, who gazed at him with mingled anger and astonishment.
“What do you mean by this foolery, Mudge?” she demanded, sternly.
“What do I mean?” repeated her husband, vaguely.
“I needn’t ask you,” said his wife, contemptuously. “I see how it is, well enough. You’re drunk!”
“Drunk!”
“Yes, drunk; as drunk as a beast.”
“Well, Mrs. Mudge,” hiccoughed her husband, in what he endeavored to make a dignified tone, “you’d be drunk too if you’d seen what I’ve seen.”
“And what have you seen, I should like to know?” said Mrs. Mudge.
Mudge rose with some difficulty, steadied himself on his feet, and approaching his wife, whispered in a tragic tone, “Mrs. Mudge, I’ve seen a sperrit.”
“It’s plain enough that you’ve seen spirit,” retorted his wife. ” ‘Tisn’t many nights that you don’t, for that matter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mudge.”
“It isn’t that,” said her husband, shaking his hand, “it’s a sperrit,–a ghost, that I’ve seen.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically, “perhaps you can tell whose it is.”
“It was the sperrit of Sally Baker,” said Mudge, solemnly.
“What did she say?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, a little curiously.
“She said that I–that we, half starved her, and then she started to run after me–and– oh, Lordy, there she is now!”
Mudge jumped trembling to his feet. Following the direction of his outstretched finger, Mrs. Mudge caught a glimpse of a white figure just before the window. I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had just arrived upon the scene.
Mrs. Mudge was at first stupefied by what she saw, but being a woman of courage she speedily recovered herself, and seizing the broom from behind the door, darted out in search of the “spirit.” But Ben, perceiving that he was discovered, had disappeared, and there was nothing to be seen.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” muttered Mudge, as his wife re-entered, baffled in her attempt, “you’ll believe it’s a sperrit, now.”
“Go to bed, you fool!” retorted his wife.
This was all that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Mudge on the subject. Mr. Mudge firmly believes, to this day, that the figure which appeared to him was the spirit of Sally Baker.